Blog 101 - Some Stories just have to be written

Blog 101 Some Stories just have to be written

January 2026

I have to apologise for being away for so long. You see something strange has been going on. I’ll try and explain; I’ve always believed that stories have a mind of their own. Some arrive politely, tapping you on the shoulder like an old friend who’s just popped round for a cuppa. Others kick the door in, track mud across the carpet, and demand your full attention whether you’re ready or not.

Most of mine, funnily enough, started with three small humans who believed — with absolute conviction — that fairies lived in my garden.
Daisy, Elsie, and later Sidney were the kind of children who didn’t just hope magic existed — they expected it. They left notes under flowerpots, behind tree roots, and in the cracks of old stone walls. And the fairies, of course, wrote back. Sometimes in tiny handwriting. Sometimes with glitter. Sometimes with a suspicious amount of mud. That’s how The Seven Realms began. Not with a grand plan, or a spreadsheet, or a carefully plotted outline, but with muddy knees, giggles, and the kind of imagination only children can wield without apology.
For years, I thought that was my lane. Middle Grade fantasy. Talking hedgehogs. Elves with questionable fashion sense. Firework displays in the garden. That sort of thing. And honestly, I loved it. There’s something pure about writing for children — something that reminds you of the wonder you used to feel before life got noisy and complicated.
But stories don’t care about lanes. They don’t care about what you think you’re supposed to write. They don’t care about your plans, your schedule, or the fact that you’re working nights at a theme park and should probably be getting more sleep.
One night, during a quiet shift, a different kind of idea drifted in. It wasn’t magical in the fairy dust sense. It wasn’t whimsical or mischievous. It was… heavier. Sharper. More grown up. A ship. A crew. A dying Earth. And an AI who wasn’t supposed to feel anything at all.
I scribbled a few lines down on a scrap of paper — nothing fancy, just a thought about a mining vessel and a crew who stumble onto something they shouldn’t have. I tucked it into my pocket and forgot about it.
Or tried to.
Because the characters didn’t forget about me.
Tariq kept flying into danger. Jess kept fixing things that shouldn’t be fixable. Mara kept carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. And Es Ta… well, she surprised me more than anyone. She started as a tool, a voice, a presence in the background — and then she became something else entirely. Something curious. Something loyal. Something almost human.
Before long, I realised I wasn’t writing a short story. I wasn’t even writing a long story. I was writing something with teeth. Something with heart. Something that wanted to be a novel — a big one — whether I felt ready or not.
And here’s the thing: I wasn’t ready. Not even close. I’d spent years writing for children, building magical worlds full of wonder and mischief. Jumping into adult science fiction felt like stepping off a cliff and hoping I’d sprout wings on the way down.
But the story didn’t care about my nerves. It didn’t care that I’d never written anything like it before. It didn’t care that I was 59 and juggling night shifts and family life and the occasional firework display. It wanted to be told. And once a story decides that, you don’t get much say in the matter.
So I followed it.
Slowly at first. Cautiously. Like approaching a wild animal you’re not sure will bite. But the more I wrote, the more the world opened up. The more the characters revealed themselves. The more I realised that this story — this strange, unexpected, stubborn story — had been waiting for me.
And maybe, in a way, I’d been waiting for it too.
I’m not ready to reveal everything yet. Not the plot twists. Not the heartbreak. Not the moments that made me sit back and whisper, “Where on Earth did that come from?” But I can say this: writing Artemis Ascending has been one of the most surprising, challenging, and rewarding journeys of my life.
It reminded me that stories don’t care how old you are. They don’t care what you’ve done before. They don’t care whether you think you’re ready. They arrive when they’re meant to — and if you’re lucky, they stay.
More on that next time.